


Rainy Nights

by Scattered_Irises



Series: Saffrons in the Palm of Your Hand [4]
Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! Zexal
Genre: Gen, It's raining, Journalism, Kaito's with the baby, Michael and Akari are cool together, There's no violence!, very quiet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-19 05:00:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19349983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scattered_Irises/pseuds/Scattered_Irises
Summary: As the rain pours, two people reminisce about the past from two different places.





	Rainy Nights

**Author's Note:**

> An extremely peaceful work with not much happening. It's a buildup episode.

  _Fssh...fsssh..._ The relentless sound of rain pouring down the roof fills the silent room. Distantly, a flash of lightning is seen. For a moment, the nursery is filled with light. He can see the small white table with its miniature china set. Stuffed animals are seated in the matching chairs. A brief thought flickers by, causing him to wonder when his child would be grown enough to play with the toys that filled her room. When it falls into darkness again, distant rumbling is heard. At his side is a cradle, which he slowly rocks back and forth. Its comforting creaking sounds makes him close eyes and remember.

 

 He despises nights such as these. The kind of night where he was forced to lie awake with nothing but his thoughts because the rain was too loud for his light sleeping habits. Another flash of lightning. He can see the dolls on the shelf that Thomas had gifted to the child. They looked forlorn, as if they were waiting to be played with. The dying lantern flickers, a feeble attempt to resurrect itself. _Boom._ He looks down at the cradle and can't help but smile with pity. How peacefully Marleen slept through such a cacophony.

 

 He can't ever remember when he himself had slept like that. Every creak, every small bit of light and every touch woke him. He woke even when his mother, tired from a late night of waiting for his father to no avail, crept upstairs to softly rest her lips upon his forehead. But in those instances, he would keep his eyes shut and his expression still. He didn't want to upset his mother any further than what his father had already done to her. At times, she would merely sit by his bedside talking about this and that in her soft voice. Perhaps she had known the whole time that he had been awake. After all, she was the woman who had raised him for 12 years without a single day away from him. But he can no longer remember her face, nor her voice, nor the touch of her hands anymore. It had been 8 years since he had been forced to suppress all memories of her.

 

 The pristine white cradle continues to reassuringly rock and gently creak. He wonders, if he were to die, would the child remember him? His newly painted portrait hangs besides the previous Lady Arclight’s, a pale ghost compared to her sunny complexion and spirited eyes. Compared to her portrait at age 20, newly given birth to Christopher, his seemed like his last. The painter had been merciless, making sure to include every flaw that had been present. Perhaps it had been on purpose, an order by Byron. Kaito wouldn’t be surprised if it was. The man was constantly trying to belittle him.

 

 Although both had been 20 when they had given birth, only the previous lady appeared young. Surely, she had never known a life of hardship and pain like he had. How he envied her and despised her at the same time. She was talked about with only admiration. It was a sign that she was loved, even after she passed. But what about _his_ mother? Forgotten and suppressed, all her possessions burned or thrown away after she died. Dr. Faker had never respected his wife. But she had done so much. She had developed Heartland’s defense systems, from the laser cannons to the robots’ defense forms. She had pioneered in dimensional research alongside her husband. She had even earned a doctorate. But she had been erased from the people’s minds just as easily as a speck of dirt. What did Marie-Luise do that deserved to be remembered by?

 

 Sometimes, he likes to imagine what his predecessor was like. From her immense collection of dolls, she must have been a woman of delicate sensibility and grace. She probably loved wearing elegant dresses and dancing the night away, unbothered by a single thing. From her hands, it appeared as if she had never had to lift or pull things in her life. Her lithe shape told of a fashion-conscious mind, making sure to conform to society’s expectations. He grimaces at that. It seemed like each season the waists became smaller and the skirts became wider. At the rate the skirts were growing, he wouldn’t be surprised if he accidentally knocked over a priceless artifact whilst traversing the halls one day.

 

  He's never bothered to look at the photographs of Marie-Luise while she was alive. He’d only feel even more inadequate, never being able to fill such a loved space. Along with that, he notices that all the photographs hanging of her depict her in her youth. There was never a photograph or painting of her in her years after Thomas. Perhaps it was a subtle way of setting up an example for him, with her bright eyes and lovely smile. The more he looks at those paintings, the more he despises them. She was nothing like his mother, who was a diligent worker and scientist.

 

 Briefly, he remembers one of the times his mother sat by his bedside and talked with tears in her eyes.

 

_“Love ain't an easy thing. Don't love too much or else your heart will break.”_

 

 He wonders about those words every once in awhile. On some nights, he's certain that those words were aimed at his father. In their youth, his mother and father were said to have been inseparable. But their marriage had eventually petered out into one of waiting and mounting resentment on both sides. Nonetheless, they had chained themselves to one another and could not escape the trap that they had made around each other. His mother had died bitter and disappointed while his father continued to live on in regret and exhaustion. Other times, he thinks that she meant him. Perhaps he had been the only reason why she never left, for she loved him too much to leave him motherless or fatherless. Regardless, her words could serve as sound advice here. If he loves the child too much, he knows that Byron would turn that love against him. Nothing was below that man. But he's aware that there has always been a part of him that longed to love and be loved back. _To be remembered._ But wasn’t Haruto already enough? The question fills his mind and he looks down at Marleen. How would Haruto remember him? How would his own child remember him?

 

 His own child... Already she was such a lovely thing. A flash fills the room and for a moment the child's face is shown. She had a pert nose and whenever she slept, her mouth would turn downwards in a frown. _The very picture of petulance._ Despite that, she was a deep sleeper and whenever she was awake, she was often quiet. Her blond hair ran down to her shoulders, held back from her face by a light blue fringe. Occasionally, she would smile in her sleep and the sight would often make Kaito smile back. _Oh, his poor child._ She didn't deserve to be born.

 

 “I’m so sorry,” he whispers amidst the rocking.

 

 His arm is beginning to hurt but he needs the reassuring _crk...crk..._ to keep the dark thoughts away. Another flash of lightning fills the room. Her eyelashes are long, just like his.

 

 “Neither of us should be here,” he whispers, tears filling his eyes.

 

  _Boom._ The rain continues to pour.

 

* * *

 

 It's nights like these that make him think back to Carnation Valley and its scream-filled halls. It was nothing like the Tsukumo’s. Where the nights here were quiet and filled with peace, Carnation Valley’s nights were terrifying and restless. The low hum of the computer and thunder meld together in the background. Other than that, it is completely quiet. At her desk, Akari has fallen fast asleep, a half-written article on the screen about a recent string of robberies. He should finish that for her. Gently, Michael shakes her awake.

 

 “Wha…?” mumbles Akari as she opens her eyes. She briefly wipes away a bit of saliva and blearily stares at Michael, a cup of tea in his hands.

 

 “Head to bed. I’ll finish the rest,” reassures Michael as he takes the keyboard.

 

  Akari’s eyes scan the half written article. Immediately, her posture straightens and she takes the keyboard back from Michael. A determined expression has filled her face and she resumes typing fervently.

 

 “Can’t. It’s important,” she mutters as she takes a sip of her lukewarm coffee. “ _You_ should be the one that’s sleeping. It’s a school night.”

 

 “I can’t,” echoes Michael as he sits down next to Akari.

 

 A flash of irritation fills her face. Before she can say anything, Michael looks back up at her.

 

 “The thunder is too loud,” he murmurs.

 

 Akari’s expression softens and she pulls her hands away from the keyboard.

 

 “Too many memories?” she asks quietly.

 

 “Always.”

 

 “Then write another article,” says Akari.

 

 She opens the drawer below her and hands Michael another keyboard. With a snap of her fingers, a second screen comes to life.

 

“Your stories need to be told,” she presses gently. “And you’re the only one who can tell it.”

 

 Michael looks down at the keyboard hesitantly. He scans Akari’s reaction but can’t tell much from the dim glow of the screens. Distantly, he hears a rumble. Quietly, he picks up the keyboard and switches it on. The buttons light up, as if inviting him to write. A satisfied smile graces Akari’s lips as Michael opens up a new document and she ruffles Michael’s hair.

 

 “The public loved the first article. You’re doing good in this world, telling these stories.”

 

 As Akari’s fingers run through Michael’s hair, he can’t help but feel a pang fill his heart. Thomas used to do that all the time. When did that stop? He takes a sip of his tea and rests his hands on the keyboard, eyes resting on the computer screen. A blank canvas awaited him.

 

 “The truth is...I want...Kaito to see these. So that he knows that his sacrifice wasn’t in vain,” says Michael.

 

 Akari nods and returns to her own article.

 

 “I’m sure he will, wherever he is.”

 

 Without another word, Michael begins to type. In a few days, he would no longer be Michael “III” Arclight. Instead, he would become Michael “III” Tsukumo. The Tsukumos had agreed to adopt him, Dr. Faker gladly overriding Byron’s legal parenthood over him.

 

 “Heartland City’s _my_ territory. He ain’t got no say in this,” chuckled Dr. Faker as he signed the adoption and citizenship proposals. “Consider yourself a Heartland citizen and a Tsukumo as long as you remain here.”

 

 Perhaps it had been partially self-serving on the old man’s part. Any chance at getting back at Byron for what he had done to Kaito was fair game, even “steal” his child. Nonetheless, Michael couldn’t wait to begin anew. No longer was he chained by the laws of Resurrection tradition nor the rituals that were involved with it. His destiny was in his own hands. Although a small part of him would regret forsaking his Arclight surname, he knows that it was necessary. That name only brought pain to him nowadays.

 

 The words flow from Michael’s fingertips as his mind recalls the atrocities committed in that house. It would be so much easier to forget and become a Tsukumo, without any reminders of the past. But as Akari had said, the story needed to be told and he was the only one who could tell it. Distantly, he hears the rain and thunder continue.

**Author's Note:**

> Ohhh boy  
> Marie-Luise from heaven: Don't make me come down there you punk


End file.
